Dragonsteeth
by Arsinoe de Blassenville
Summary: From my plot mabari bin: Dragon Age short stories, flashfics, and drabbles that include AUs, dimension-shifting, and crossovers. This week, "And Never to Rule over Him!" Or, "You Can't Have a Fair Fight With a Mage." The Landsmeet, Dragon 9:31 (Two flashfics on one subject.) Characters named are not necessarily pairings.
1. The Redcliffe Fulcrum

**The Redcliffe Fulcrum  
**

**Or,**

**I Never Liked You Anyway**

_The Elven Mage Origin Fails to Assimilate_

_into the Warden Party, Dragon 9:30_

The boy was possessed. One could guess the end of the story, of course. The abomination would be killed, the world made safe from demons, the grieving survivors left to pick up the pieces.

Then Jowan, pawn and player in this gruesome disaster, had an idea.

"I can go into the Fade and fight the demon there." He hesitated. "It takes a lot of lyrium and a lot of magic. Or it takes a lot of blood. A life's worth."

It was a fair offer, but Alistair absolutely refused to have anything to do with Blood Magic. Arlessa Isolde would have sacrificed herself happily to save her son, but Elin Surana laid the idea by. Her tenuous command would not stand the strain. The only being on whom she could rely was her dog Rambler, a stray picked up on the road.

_Was_ she in command? Sort of, she supposed. _Sort of_ the leader. "Command" was too strong a word. It was rather more like herding cats. When there as a decision to be made—which direction to go, where to stop to eat or camp—Alistair stared at her until she said something. As often as not, he complained about it, but did not offer an alternative of his own. Morrigan smirked at her and made cutting remarks. Leliana was wide-eyed and cheerful, but never offered any helpful suggestions. She even told Elin glowing stories about Orlais, where Elin would be prized like a pet for her delicate features and tiny hands. Sten, the impassive Qunari, looked down on her — literally— and informed her that in Qunari lands she would have been leashed like a dog. He frequently expressed his opinion of her callow inexperience and lack of tactical training.

_Well, duh. Yes, Sten, that's just the sort of thing they teach us at the Circle. Tactics and strategy and how to defeat our sworn enemies. Who are standing there watching us the entire time._

She was a mage, and that lay between them: Alistair, the almost-Templar; Leliana the lay sister of a Chantry whose paramount mission was the repression and incarceration of mages; Sten, whose Qunari folk enslaved mages, sewed their lips shut, and kept them in kennels. Even Morrigan scorned her as a Circle mage, one who had been brought up in the limited, hot-house atmosphere of life-long imprisonment.

And then, of course, she was an elf, a member of the most despised race on Thedas. That was not really much of an issue at the Circle, but it certainly was everywhere else. Her journey from the Circle with Duncan after her conscription and her subsequent arrival at Ostagar to join a large human army had been a rude awakening. On the road, everyone had assumed she was Duncan's servant at best, his whore at worst. At camp, she was constantly solicited — sometimes very bluntly and aggressively— for sexual favors that it was assumed she would provide with uncomplaining submission.

It had not helped that while there were two other elves among the Grey Wardens, there were no other women at all. She had found her few nights sleeping in a tent with two dozen strangers—mostly huge, brawny, hairy, _smelly_ human males— frightening and horribly awkward. They were dirty and gross; they belched and scratched and farted. There had been touches; there had been innuendo; she was convinced that within a few days there would have been much, much more, "brother" Wardens or not. For that reason, she had not spent any time mourning them. Duncan may have done her a favor; the rest had done her none at all.

The one thing Alistair had insisted on was that they go first to his childhood home in Redcliffe. Arl Eamon had raised him, and Alistair said he was a good man and would see them right. Only the more she heard, the more it appeared to her that Arl Eamon was _not_ a good man, and had had precious little to do with raising Alistair. Instead, he was just another arrogant noble, who had persuaded Alistair to be grateful for letting him sleep in the stables and eat scraps.

To get back to her current situation: Jowan was the only person in this room that she sort of trusted. She had known him since she could remember. Everyone else was a stranger, and had either patronized or insulted her. Jowan had betrayed her, but she understood why: he had been in fear for his life. For that matter, he was the only person here who understood _her_.

"If we had sufficient lyrium and more mages," Morrigan pointed out, "we need not descend to the use of Blood Magic at all."

Morrigan disapproved of Blood Magic, Elin understood. Not out of fear of demons or possession, but out of some sort of magical snobbery instilled in her by her awful mother. It was enough to make Elin want to try it.

But she was forced to agree with Morrigan's assessment. So was Jowan. Alistair and Leliana were immensely pleased. Too bad. This solution, in Elin's opinion, would only make everything worse.

"We have to go to the Circle anyway!" Alistair blurted happily. "We'll go and get some mages, and come back and help Connor!"

"So we'll all leave," Elin said tightly. "It will only take two days to get there and two days to get back. If we're lucky. Nothing to worry about. After all, what could happen here in four days with _a demon in the castle?"_

Alistair grin faded. "Teagan could guard him..."

"The same Teagan we saw cutting capers in the Great Hall?' Elin drawled.

"Well," Alistair said reluctantly. "I suppose I could stay and you could go."

Elin thought she might throw up. "That's an incredibly bad idea. When Duncan pulled me out of the Circle they were about to kill me. If I go back with no Duncan in tow, I expect they will. Or make me Tranquil. If you want to go, then go. I can stay here and guard the boy. Morrigan should stay too. If she goes to the Circle, they'll want to keep her."

"Certainly not!" Morrigan declared. "I am not afraid of Templars! Alistair will need someone sensible along if you stay here."

"And I shall go too," Leliana said brightly. "On the road, three are safer than two."

"_Pashaara!"_ Sten exclaimed. "I and the _saarebas_ will guard the boy. With the dog."

"That sounds fair," Alistair agreed. "Three and three."

"All right," Elin, not liking it at all, but unable to think of a way to make it work better. "And Jowan can help me prepare the ritual."

"Absolutely not!" Alistair stormed. "He goes back in the cells. After what he did..."

Elin glared at him stonily. "Don't you think you should get going pretty soon? Or maybe we can just simplify this by killing the abomination, which is the _sane, sensible thing to do, _and which you would not hesitate to do, were he _anyone_ but the son of a rich noble._"_

Alistair glared back and flounced off to speak to Teagan, locking Jowan up and doubling the guard on him. He was quite smug about having his way. By this time, Elin had had enough of the lot of them. She could see why Leliana wanted to go, considering how awkwardly her last conversation with Elin had ended; but why was Morrigan clinging so to Alistair? She _despised _Alistair. There was some sort of agenda there.

Elin let Sten take the first watch, and settled into her room: a little box of a bedchamber, good enough for an elf. For that matter, it really was the nicest room she had ever had. She was able to sleep for a few hours, even though she was unused to such a degree of privacy.

She awakened, restless and on edge, and decided to go down and check on Jowan. They could at least feed him. Come to think of it, she was hungry herself. The upstairs kitchen was silent. Elin snagged a basket of bread, sausage and cheese, dusted off a bottle of mead, and then went downstairs to the dungeons.

No one was on guard there. Elin paused, a terrible weight falling in her belly, like a premonition of doom.

Jowan was dead. He looked small and at peace on the bloody floor of his cell. He had plainly been run through by a sword. Elin sat with him for awhile, wiping her eyes and then eating a bit from her basket, because she was a Warden, and hungry. She gathered up her things and went to the Great Hall. A few guards lounged there. Arlessa Isolde, the cause of all this misery, dozed in her chair of state. Bann Teagan spoke in low tones with some of his knights. Elin approached quietly and stood by the bench where he was sitting. A knight noticed her and jerked his head to catch Teagan's attention.

"Yes? What is it, Warden?" the noble asked, studiously polite.

"I noticed," said Elin, with bright-eyed calm, "that the prisoner Jowan is dead."

"Yes," Teagan nodded, looking serious. "Alistair thought it best, after all. He saw to it just before he left."

"I see. Has there been any activity from the boy?"

He hesitated, just for a moment. Elin wondered if he would rebuke her for not referring to the abomination as "Lord Connor." Luckily, he did not. She could not have answered for her reaction.

"None so far. The Qunari is still on guard."

"I shall soon relieve him. Thank you, my lord."

He nodded in dismissal, and Elin went her way, hating them all with a mighty, burning hatred. With Jowan's death, not one of them was worth so much as a broken fingernail to her.

She found a leather bag in the chamberlain's room, and began some serious looting.

"We're leaving, Rambler," she told the dog. "I've had it. Maybe we'll go find the Dalish. Or maybe we'll go live with the dwarves. I'm supposed to go to them anyway."

She had the key to the armory and the treasury. She had the key to the Arl's desk. It was too bad she could not get into the private family apartments, where the jewels must be kept, but she found quite a bit of gold , which she tied up in a sash and wrapped around her waist next to her skin. The silver went into her belt pouch. She found a good map of Ferelden. She even found a new studded collar for Rambler in the empty kennels. She found some light leathers, obviously made for a young human boy, that fit her reasonably well, other than being a bit big in the shoulders. They were too big for Connor. Perhaps they had belonged to Bann Teagan, or even to the King, the nephew of the Guerrins. With a light helmet to hide her ears, Elin would look like a human boy: beneath the notice of bandits, Templars, or soldiers.

She packed food, too. She had no idea how long her journey would last. If all else failed, she would find a Warden post elsewhere, and let the experts deal with the Blight.

Yes. Actually, that was the best idea of all. She took a breath, sat down, and thought about it. She was a Warden, but a junior Warden, unequal to this monumental task. Alistair was even more incompetent that she. She would report to a superior officer, and let them manage it.

She had not wasted her time on the trail with Duncan. They had needed something to talk about on those long days and nights, so they had talked about the Grey Wardens. The nearest post was in Jader, across the Orlesian border. Elin pictured it in her mind. The next closest was in Ansburg in the Free Marches. Jader was a lot closer. The main gate of Orzammar was only a short distance from the city of Jader. She saw nothing wrong with going to get help from them. Duncan was friends with the Senior Warden there, whose name Elin struggled to remember. Rendon? Randall? No! Riordan!

What else was she supposed to do? The only other Fereldan Warden was a complete idiot who had just murdered her oldest friend. Maybe she could take one of those boats across the lake. When her backpack and her food bag were ready, she hefted her staff, considering walking away. She could be halfway to the border before Alistair knew she was gone.

But then, her conscience rebuked her. Could she live with herself if she left all these people to be killed by the abomination? Not the nobles and their lackeys. She owed them nothing. Bann Teagan had been polite, but that was because she was a Warden who had arrived with Alistair and had saved his life. The Arlessa had made her contempt for Elin clear. The possessed boy had cackled with glee, remembering how the castle dogs had chewed the sliced-off ears of the murdered elven servants. Not one survived in the castle. Elin was the only elf in Redcliffe now. It was fairly alarming, when she allowed herself to dwell on it.

But there were harmless, frightened people in the village like that girl Kaitlyn and her little brother. They had not shown much respect for her as an elf, but they, too, were utterly at the mercy of those in the castle. Elin must see this through, and have the decency to wait until Alistair and the rest returned before she announced her decision to go to Jader. Reluctantly, she went to her room and set down her bags of loot and provisions. They would keep until her work here was done.

It was time to find Sten and send him off to bed. He was standing guard just at the entrance to the family apartments. Knowing his views on mages, Elin approached him somewhat nervously, now that there were just the two of them. This creature had killed an entire family in a mindless rage, after all.

He grunted at the sight of her. Perhaps she did not look as disgustingly mage-like in the leathers.

"Has the boy done anything?" she asked.

"No. There has been no movement and no sound. He is likely asleep."

Elin thought about that. That did not make them safe. "Be careful," she cautioned the Qunari. "The demon has the power to attack you when you are in the Fade. If your dreams seem odd, it could be that the demon is manipulating them. It will offer you things that you desire. Try to wake yourself, if you can. It might well be the way it first gained control of the castle."

The Qunari did not scoff, but took the warning seriously. "It would have been better to slay the abomination at once."

"I agree, but we are now guests of the family, and have promised otherwise. We must hold fast until Alistair and the rest return."

It was a horrible wait. The demon did not cease its onslaughts. A number of guards fell prey and some murdered each other. Arlessa Isolde did not cease to whine and complain.

And someone had to feed and water the abomination in the family rooms. That job fell to Elin. Sten helped her, though he continued to make plain his opinion that it was absurd. Elin did not disagree, only pointing out that the demon might lash out if its host was hungry. They left bowls and pitchers at the hall leading the rooms, and came back later to fetch the empties. The demon had decided to take the trouble to keep its vessel alive. It would all be so much easier if it did not.

Days passed. The fourth, the fifth, the sixth. Elin was filled with dread, wondering what those idiots had stumbled into. She considered raising the idea of just _leaving_ to Sten. On the seventh day they returned.

With only one new mage.

Elin knew Wynne, of course: Senior Enchanter Perfect Wynne, who called herself an Aequitarian, but who was the most vocal Loyalist in the Circle. Her network of "old friends" among the Templars had ensured that she could go anywhere and do anything she pleased. She had been at Ostagar, for that matter, but Elin had seen little of her. Wynne had managed to escape unscathed from that, too, which was no great surprise. How did Alistair imagine that they would be enough to perform the ritual to save Connor?

Before Leliana could compliment her on her new, boyishly martial look, Elin asked, "Where are the mages?"

Alistair turned red. "We ran into some trouble at the Circle. The mages were rebelling, and some of them were Blood mages..."

Elin stared at him in horror. "What are you saying?"

Wynne answered for him, in her too-smooth, pseudo-maternal way. "The Knight-Commander has sent to Denerim for the Right of Annulment."

"What!" Elin screamed. She shouted at Alistair. "You were supposed to get the mages to help against the Blight. _Not kill them all!"_

"It could not be helped," soothed Leliana, more in sorrow than in anger. "And the Templars will help us instead, so it is for the best. Who can tell who is a blood mage, and who is not? They will be questioned... and..."

"They'll be tortured to death! But I noticed that Wynne slipped away, as usual. Nice to have faithful 'old friends,' isn't it?"

Wynne was very indignant. Morrigan burst out into cackling laughter.

"The Knight-Commander wished her to stay, and offered her the position of First Enchanter!"

"Such a surprise," Elin said, sickened. "But you didn't stay, did you? Much safer to be far away when the killing starts."

"You're upset," Alistair blurted. "You weren't there..."

"No, I was _here,_ trying to keep that little abomination from slaughtering what's left of Redcliffe! How are we going to do that ritual now?"

"I guess... we can't."

"Well," Elin said, her words clipped. "Too bad you murdered Jowan, isn't it? We might have managed it with four mages. Good work there, stabbing a helpless man locked in a cell."

"He poisoned Arl Eamon!"

"We needed him! _I_ needed him. We lost more people here, because there weren't enough to guard that little monster. I don't know why he matters so much to you anyway. You obviously don't object to killing children."

"What?" He was furious now. "You can't say that!"

"I can't, can it? What do you think will happen to the six-year-old apprentices you condemned to death?" She snarled, seeing the amusement on Morrigan's face. "I expect _Morrigan _to delight in death and cruelty, I expect Wynne to manipulate the situation to her own advantage, but you pretended to be something else. I see that empathy, after all, is not exactly your strong suit. Of course you won't see or hear them screaming for mercy as their little bodies are broken on the rack, so why should you care?"

Morrigan's smile vanished, in a sudden look of confusion and surprise. Not at the picture of the torture of children, Elin guessed, but that Elin would express such contempt for her. With an effort, Elin mastered her rage, burying it under an icy layer of clinical analysis.

"All right. We're back where we started, and with an insufficient number of mages to help us. We have some hard choices now. We can walk away from this disaster, for I see no advantage to the Wardens in remaining..."

"We can't—"

"Or Connor must die. Those are our choices. Those are the choices you have made, Alistair. You'd better inform Arl Teagan and that horrible woman."

Sten had awakened and come looking for her. Hearing the voices, he joined them.

"Was the mission a success?"

"No," Elin declared before Alistair could begin obfuscating. "The mission was a failure. Alistair brought back only one mage, which is an _insufficient number_ for the proposed exorcism."

The Qunari was unimpressed with all of them. "I told you that we should slay the abomination."

"I agreed with you at the time, but we tried the only alternative. Now it appears that the abomination must indeed be slain. It only remains to decide who will do it."

"Well," Wynne said softly, "as a Grey Warden, Elin, it obviously falls to you—"

"Oh, no!" Elin laughed, a sharp nasty bark that startled the dog. "You're not going to make the _elf _the scapegoat this time. I can just imagine how quickly they'd hang me_. 'Elf mage murders Arl's son?'_ No, we're going to confer with the nobles and their flunkeys. In my opinion, Bann Teagan should do it, or a man under his command. We can stand by to protect them from magical attacks."

"But.." Alistair flailed. "that's just... cruel!" He threw up his hands in despair. "Why can't we try what Jowan suggested? That would save Connor..."

"Blood magic?" Elin scoffed. "I think not. You had a Blood Mage, and you threw him away."

"It's very sad, of course," said Wynne, a gentle hand on Alistair's muscular arm. "But these things happen, and it is in no way your fault. How could anyone have anticipated the fall of the Circle? It is a tragic situation, but it is the fault of a Blood Mage."

"No," Elin snapped. "It is entirely the fault of that stupid woman, the boy's mother, who thinks laws are for the little people. She'll suffer for it, and there's an end."

It was a glum group that approached Teagan and Isolde. The arlessa shrieked in horror and begged pitifully for her son's life. And then she accused Alistair of deliberately murdering him. Elin considered putting her under a sleep spell, but was going to do nothing to make herself a culprit here. Wynne did instead, acting the part of the concerned Healer, a part she knew how to play so very well. Perhaps she was even sincere, when her patient was a human noblewoman.

In the interest of solidarity, Elin said to Bann Teagan, "Alistair could not have known about the disaster at the Circle. We made a desperate attempt to save the boy, but there are no more Circle mages to help. We cannot perform Blood Magic. There is only one thing left to do. In the absence of any Templars, it is for the civil authorities here to pass sentence."

"You will not..." Bann Teagan began, but stopped at the stony look on Elin's face. "You have already done so much... saved so many."

"We will of course stand by as witnesses," Elin continued. "And continue to guard against another attack by the demon."

All the knights were afraid to kill the boy; afraid of the consequences, afraid of the Arlessa's vengeance, afraid of her screams. In the end, Teagan had to do it.

But the demon was ready to fight for its life. When the pleas of the sad little boy did not disarm his uncle, the demon lashed out in full force, as the boy transformed, growing, huge...misshapen...malicious...hideous.

They had quite a fight on their hands. Teagan was hurt, and Leliana was hurt, and Sten was badly slashed. In the end they brought the creature down.

Elin stood back, behind the others, casting her spells from a safe distance, glad when it was over. Teagan, haggard and red-eyed, slumped against a wall, his bloody sword fallen to the stone floor with a clang, hands over his face.

"We must see to the Arl," Elin said quietly, and followed Alistair and Wynne into the Arl's chamber.

It stank in there, of course: the bed filthy and reeking of voided excrement and stale urine. The Arl was yellow and wasted.

And his heart had stopped. His faded blue eyes were open and unseeing.

The others wondered when he had died, since it had clearly been very recent. Elin was unsurprised. How could the demon continue to keep the man alive per its agreement with the boy, when it had been killed and its host with it?

Arl Eamon of Redcliffe was dead, his heir was dead, and Teagan Guerrin, now arl in his turn, had in a sense killed them both. Elin was never so satisfied with the wisdom of a refusal in her life. Teagan had plenty of witnesses to the boy's possession, but these deaths would shadow him for the rest of his life.

Downstairs, the Arlessa had awakened, and was screaming. Her screams were coming closer and closer. Elin eyed the room, behind the rest, and found a few little treasures to palm before she made her escape. The arlessa's screams changed...became wild and terrified, when she saw what her little son had become.

* * *

To his credit, Teagan was trying to pull Redcliffe together. Nor did he seem to bear them any ill will. Isolde, locked in the boy's room, was another matter. She was hysterical and vengeful, swearing that she would inflict horrible deaths on all those who had betrayed her: Teagan and Alistair first of all.

"She's gone mad," Teagan said heavily. "Utterly mad."

Elin did not think she was mad, nor for that matter, did Wynne. They agreed that the Arlessa's condition was in part the natural grief of a bereaved mother and in part the fury of a powerful woman who had never before been deprived of anything she wanted. The proportions of those parts were not theirs to judge.

"We have to move on," Elin said. "Despite the tragedy here, the Blight is still a threat to everyone. We still have two possible allies: the Dalish and the Dwarves. I think we should go north to Orzammar."

"The Dalish might be closer," Leliana pointed out.

"Let's leave the Dalish alone," Elin said, frost in her words. "There aren't that many of them to begin with, they might take time to locate, and people hate elves, anyway. _Somebody_ might decide to _kill_ _them all_ instead."

Alistair glared at her, but she ignored him, and went on. "I think we should head toward Orzammar, to the dwarves, because they have a big army. And Orzammar is in one place on the map. We can't miss it. And I have another idea, too."

They looked up, more or less apathetically. Elin tried not to sneer. "Orzammar is only a short distance from Jader. Part of our group should go to Jader, where there is a Grey Warden post, no doubt full of Wardens. We need help, obviously, and an experienced commander."

"That is the most sensible remark I have ever heard from anyone in this party," Sten declared. "It is appropriate to report to a superior officer, when one's own abilities are insufficient."

"Jader?" Alistair floundered. "But that's thousands of miles away! How would we ever get there?"

"It is not 'thousands of miles away,'" Elin contradicted. "Look, I have a map."

She laid it on a table and showed it to them. "Here is Redcliffe. To get to the Dalish lands, we would have to go past Lothering, which is already under attack by the darkspawn. On the other hand, we can go north, maybe taking a boat part of the way. There, through the Gherlen Pass, and just off the Imperial Highway, is Orzammar. Now look. There's Jader. It's not half a day's walk from the gates of Orzammar. We might have to sneak across the border somewhere other than at the Highway, but it's really not far. Duncan told me about the Wardens of Jader. He has a friend there, named Riordan."

Alistair perked up quite a bit at the mention of Duncan. "I remember Riordan. He was at my Joining."

"All right, there you go," said Elin, feeling like she was speaking to a child. "We'll find this Riordan. I'm sure he'll help us. He has Wardens under his command. I think we should go to Orzammar, and see how the land lays, and then some of us should go to Jader and talk to Riordan."

"At least," grudged Morrigan, "'tis something resembling a plan."

Sten grunted agreement, and Wynne smiled so approvingly that Elin wanted to curse her.

"I think it is a wonderful idea!" enthused Leliana. "Jader is a splendid city. Many buildings are faced with greenstone, and there is much wealth and culture there. I am sure this Warden Riordan would be most helpful. I could guide you there. I know the city well."

"I'm sure you do," Elin agreed, not wanting Leliana anywhere near Jader. By this time, she was absolutely sure that Leliana was a former bard, and the degree of "former" was unclear. An Orlesian in Lothering, who just "happened" to want to join the Wardens? The daffiness sometimes seemed laid on a bit too thick. Morrigan had an agenda, certainly, but Leliana had one, too, and Elin did not want to advance it in the least.

In fact, she was not sure she wanted any of them with her. She was very uncomfortable in this party as the only elf. They had cheerfully murdered Jowan; why would they not murder her if it suited them? She wanted to get away from them: far away, and this seemed like her best chance, if she could bring it off.

* * *

She did not let them kill Zevran. That was always their first impulse in any situation, but she was there to keep an eye on them this time. They had killed Jowan, but they would not kill this elf.

He told her she was gorgeous, which was ridiculous and fairly annoying, but he told her other, more important things as well. Arl Rendon Howe had contacted the Crow assassins, and had persuaded Teyrn Loghain to hire them to murder her and Alistair. Zevran had had no trouble finding and recognizing Alistair at all, which was very odd and fairly alarming, though Elin's leathers had concealed her own identity. Of course, word must have got out about the disaster at Redcliffe. No doubt their enemies were making hay of that and blaming them for everything. It made her very sad sometimes, but of course elves and mages were _always_ blamed for everything. Teyrn Loghain had actually been rather nice to her when they met at Ostagar. Could he actually believe all these terrible things?

Of course not. It was politics. Human politics. The Grey Wardens made a convenient scapegoat for the defeat at Ostagar and the death of the king. At the moment, she really could not see what good it would do to remain in Ferelden without more Wardens to help her. She was eager to see what this Riordan of Jader was like. Surely he would know what to do. If she did not like him, she would leave, and take her chances as an apostate.

For now though, it was rather nice to hear Zevran's stories of Antiva, since they did not include patronizing comments about what a charming servant she would make there.

One night, he murmured. "You do not like your comrades, I think?"

"I hate them," she told him frankly. "They murdered my childhood friend when my back was turned. They went to the Circle, and their incompetence will lead to the torture and death of everyone I grew up with. They're awfully pleased with themselves about it, too. I hate them, and I'll never forgive them."

She told him more: how she been taken to the Circle in early childhood, and been conscripted into the Wardens. He told her about how he had been orphaned, and then sold to the Crows. They had many things in common. Elin had not known a great many elves. She had certainly never before met an elf like Zevran.

At the village nearest Orzammar, they were warned that the border was under heavy guard. They could get to Orzammar and the Frostback Fair, but no farther without risking being identified.

Alistair was ready to give up. "Well, I guess that's the end of that."

"Not at all," Elin said briskly. "We'll slip through the countryside, or we'll go up to the coast and get another boat. I'm sure I can get through to Jader."

"Maybe I should be the one to go to Jader and see Riordan," said Alistair. "He'll remember me."

"Maybe not," Elin countered. "You're the son of Maric. I'll bet serious money the Orlesians know that, and they'd try to use you.'

"But I'm a Warden!" he protested. "They can't!"

"You think not?" Elin shrugged. "I wouldn't bet on it. How would you like it if the Empress tried to put you forward as the rightful King of Ferelden?"

He shuddered, unable to find words.

Elin thought she had him. She filled her voice with confidence.

"I think you'd be a lot safer in Orzammar, and we'll have the Jader Wardens join us there. You don't want to give Teyrn Loghain any more ammunition about the Wardens being traitors. Nobody cares about an elf, but they'd care about you."

He disliked her, and had little respect for her, but she could see that the ingrained fear of putting himself forward was working in her favor. Like the rest, he had completely forgotten that he had broken her heart and trampled on it, and that she hated him. The feelings of an elf were of no importance. With luck, she could slip over the border to Jader, and would never have to see any of these horrible people again. If she did, maybe the Jader Wardens would stand up for her.

More assassins tried to kill them near Orzammar: first, a band looking for Leliana.

By now, Elin suspected that Leliana was not only a bard, but that she was on a mission for someone important in Orlais. She spoke of her old bardmaster, Marjolaine, and gave an implausible story of their violent ruction. When Alistair gossiped about their comrades behind their backs, Elin did not hesitate to badmouth Morrigan and Leliana. She had a few things to say about Wynne too, but had to be careful, for Wynne was making inroads with Alistair by mothering him. He liked being coddled.

But she had plenty to say about Leliana.

"She's admitted that she was a bard and stole secrets. A lay sister is a good cover. I think her joining us was just a little too _convenient,_ don't you? And of course Teyrn Loghain can accuse us of being in league with Orlesians, since we are in fact, in league with an Orlesian. It looks bad. I don't think she should go to Jader at all. I think she should stay with you in Orzammar. She fights well, and it will reduce the appearance of collusion with a foreign spy."

Then they were attacked by bounty hunters not far from the gates of Orzammar. None of these lived to tell their story, but on them were the broadsheets denouncing Grey Wardens and describing Alistair and Elin. Luckily, Elin no longer resembled the description on the broadsheets. Her robes had been disposed of in the lake. She carried a bow on her back: a bow she did not know how to use, but which gave her the appearance of a young boy out hunting.

"You need to change your appearance further, my Warden," Zevran advised. He knew how to brew hair dye, she discovered, from elf root and dragonthorn bark. He even helped her apply it, turning her dishwater blonde hair to a rich, dark chestnut color. He helped her trim it off in a style that was both boyish and that covered her ears. It was odd, being tended to. Odd and pleasant at the same time. She was beginning to hope that she and Zevran could truly be friends. It was so hard to trust anyone...

While her comrades ran about the Frostback Fair, making purchases and gossiping among themselves, Elin marched up to the gates to pursue their mission. The first order of business was to enter Orzammar. Even in that she was nearly thwarted.

For Loghain had sent an ambassador to the dwarves, who was even now ranting at the guards who refused him entrance. Elin came up behind the tall human, listening to the quarrel. Apparently, there was trouble in the dwarven kingdom. Elin slipped past Loghain's envoy and asked to be admitted.

"Orzammar is closed, stranger."

Elin offered her copy of the Warden treaty with more confidence than she felt.

"I am a Grey Warden, and this treaty obliges the dwarven people to assist in the war against the Blight."

The dwarven guard frowned over the document, and others gathered to look at it. The guard nodded. "This is indeed a valid document, Warden, but Orzammar has no king to honor it. Nonetheless, you will want to speak to Steward Bandelor, who rules the city...for now."

"What!" Loghain's envoy shouted. "You're letting _her_ in? Everyone knows the Wardens killed King Cailan and almost doomed Ferelden!"

It was too much.

"_Everyone_ knows?" Elin exploded, poking him in the chest. "Then _'everyone_' is an idiot! Teyrn Loghain knows _I_ had _nothing_ to do with what happened to King Cailan because I was on the other side of the battlefield— doing what_ he_ said would be something safe, but the Tower was already infested with darkspawn and I ended up flat on my back for two weeks after the battle being nursed by crazy Wilders! I don't know what you're talking about when you say the other Wardens killed Cailan. If they did it was a_ stupid_ plan, because now they're all dead, too! You listen to me, and you take Teyrn Loghain this message. I'm not doing anything wrong. It's my duty to get allies for Ferelden against the Blight, and I'm _doing_ it. You're here for the very same reason, but the difference is that I have a treaty and you don't. Tell Loghain that I'm _working_ on it. You tell him. That's all I've got to say."

"Except—" she paused and spoke to the mage standing next with the warriors. "I know you from the Circle. Don't go back there," she warned him. "The Knight-Commander's gone mad and sent for the Right of Annulment. In the middle of a Blight!" She growled at the envoy. "If Loghain wants allies, tell him to do something about _that! _I've got a treaty for them, too." She refused to mention Alistair's verbal agreement for Templar help, considering it worth less than nothing.

She stalked to the open gate, and turned for a last parting shot. "And tell him to stop sending assassins after me! I can't get the dwarves to fight for Ferelden if he keeps trying to knife me in the back!"

Rambler barked agreement. Zevran laughed; and elf and dog followed her as she swept past, headed for the entrance to the dwarven kingdom.

The envoy stood there agape. A few moments later Alistair tore himself away from the vendors and came rushing after Elin, with Leliana, Wynne, and Morrigan in tow. Sten brought up the rear, looming over them, pleased to have his sword again, which he had bullied from a trembling merchant.

* * *

They discovered Orzammar in chaos. However, Elin found it refreshing not to be despised on sight. The dwarves thought no better of humans than they did of elves, nor had they any reflexive horror of mages. They actually respected Wardens. No one stared, disgusted and baffled, when Elin spoke for the group as their leader. The Steward told her of the stalemate between the rival candidates. There was bloodshed in the streets.

Alistair made his opinion clear. "This is hopeless."

"It's _not_ hopeless," Elin disagreed. "We'll have to find a way to break the stalemate." She yawned. "Tomorrow. Let's find an inn, get some sleep, and meet with those nobles tomorrow."

They slept two to a room, except for Alistair, who made plain his distrust both of Sten and of Zevran. Elin swallowed her bile and put up with Wynne's insistence that Rambler sleep outside the door, and then tried to ignore the older woman's insufferable words of wisdom.

"You should learn humility, my dear. It's not for mages to put themselves forward. When Alistair gives you an order, it's for you to obey."

"Oh, really? But he _doesn't_ give orders! He won't even express an opinion until someone else does, and then it's only to disagree!"

"_I _don't have any problem with him. He's a very sweet young man." Wynne sighed. "You just don't seem to have a gift for managing men, I'm afraid. He might need a nudge now and then, but you should leave him his pride."

Elin turned on her side and pretended to go to sleep. Soon after, she really did, for she was exhausted, and felt fairly safe for the first time in weeks, with a stout door and stone walls between her and the rest of the world. Tavern noise drifted in, but even dwarven singing could not wake her. Nor was there dawn to awaken her naturally. Many hours later, a pounding on her door roused her. She stumbled away from the strange stone bed, clutching at her clothing.

"Who is it? Alistair?"

"It is Zevran." The assassin's voice was muffled by the heavy metal door. "And Sten. And the dog. Dress quickly. The rest are gone."

Sure enough. Wynne was not in the room, and her little bundle of possessions was gone as well. Elin felt frantically for her coin, but it was still securely tied around her waist.

Qunari, Antivan, and Dog. Her remaining three allies stood before her in a bizarre, stair-step arrangement.

"They're _gone?"_ She stared about wildly, expecting to see red hair and black hair emerging from the room across the corridor. "Leliana and Morrigan, too?"

"They have deserted," Sten growled. "They have fled. It is a disgrace."

"And, I fear," Zevran told her, "that they have left you to pay their bills."

"Bastards!" Elin burst out, magical flames dancing around her head like a halo. The people she hated had dared to seize the initiative, and done to her exactly what she had planned to do to them. She felt she might actually ignite from rage and frustration. "I'll skin them! Cowardly bastards!"

The two men backed a way a little, and Zevran, assuming a conciliatory, fixed smile, suggested, "Let us search for anything left behind. It may tell us whence they have fled."

"Bastards!" Elin snarled, still leaking magic. "They're dead! They're nothing!"

But she followed them, all the same, as they searched the rooms for anything left behind.

There was not much. Having a room to himself, Alistair had packed at his leisure. And so, likewise, had Leliana and Morrigan, taking all their trumpery gew-gaws. Wynne alone had left something: a letter. Offensive and condescending as it was, Elin gave her fellow mage credit for having the decency to explain herself. The others had simply run away.

_My dear Elin,_

_When you read this, I will be long gone. Alistair has decided to go to Jader to report to his superior officers. Morrigan, Leliana, and I think it best to accompany him. The situation in Orzammar—and, I regret to say, in Ferelden—is utterly hopeless. While that monster Loghain rules, there is no point attempting to resist the darkspawn. I hardly know which is worse._

_As your senior in the Grey Wardens, Alistair decided that he would be the best choice to report to Jader. Leliana feels she will have not the least difficulty in getting us across the border. It is really for the best, you see. A larger party would only attract unwanted attention, and I fear that Sten and Zevran are not to be trusted._

_Alistair thinks it does not much matter what you do. You can stay in Orzammar, or go anywhere you like. Personally, I believe it is your duty to return to the Circle. After the Annulment, they will need help in rebuilding. Of course, you will do as you like, but I hope you will not be so wicked and foolish as to dream of being an apostate. It is a terribly hard life, and you would no doubt soon suffer the lawful fate of such. Do be sensible, my dear. Even the Tranquil serve a purpose. It is all part of the Maker's plan._

_Cordially,_

_Wynne._

Elin's first impulse was to crumple the letter and set it on fire. She fought the impulse down, and smoothed out the parchment, instead letting it burn into her brain. She was keeping this. Forever. Someday, she would shove it down a blond imbecile's throat.

They had done more or less what she had planned — go to Jader —which rankled. Her intention, however, had been to get _help._ It was clear that these _humans_ were simply abandoning Ferelden to its fate. She could hear Alistair's voice in her head, telling Riordan, _"It's hopeless." _ As for Wynne's inability to distinguish between a mere pig-headed soldier like Teyrn Loghain and the _darkspawn_ — well, that was too idiotic for words.

She turned to her remaining companions, anger fueling a new determination.

"Come in here and shut the door. I want to read this to you. You have the right to know what's going on. Know this: whatever these scum have decided, I am going to fight on. Maker, hear me! I'm going to fight, and I'm going to put a king on the throne of Orzammar, and I'm going to defeat the Blight, and I don't need Alistair and his women to do it!"

* * *

_Notes: Yes, this story is from Elin's POV, and she is not being fair to the other characters. On the other hand, they're not being fair to her, either. _

_I think how Alistair turns out depends entirely on the nature of the Warden PC. This pairing was very unfortunate. Elin is too distrustful and fearful of him for them to make friends easily. If they had tried another quest before Redcliffe and had bonded over that, it all might have worked out.  
_

_I also think there are lots of problems with the Redcliffe story—especially leaving to go to the Circle with a possessed Connor still active. How exactly are they to keep him from going on another rampage? I don't believe they can, personally. Or if they do, it still might not work out they way they want. I don't see why Eamon, kept alive by the power of the demon, would survive its demise. I know the story requires Eamon, but I still think that his survival is a major plot hole.  
_

_I don't see why a Circle mage would adapt easily to the outside world, or instantly make best buddies with an ex-Templar, a lay sister of the Chantry, a Qunari, and an apostate who despises Circle mages. Perhaps the Circle mage would never like them at all. It's possible in the game for all the female Origins to fall in love with Alistair, but I can see reasons why the elven origins might not find a human male with Templar training attractive. In the case of the mage elf, quite the opposite, in fact.  
_

_Also, based on the ingrained racism evident in Thedas, I think an elf in charge of the Warden party would be very much more objectionable to most humans than we can easily imagine. Many Thedosians might find it shocking and repulsive, in fact. Imagine a black soldier attempting to take command of a white unit in the U.S army during WWII. (There were some black officers, but white soldiers could often flout them with impunity)._

_As to Leliana, my views on her have radically evolved since DA2. The charming, daffy, idealistic Chantry dilettante shows up in Kirkwall as a hard-eyed Chantry zealot: a dedicated agent of the Divine, high in the Seekers' ranks. Maybe she always was. She wears a Seeker's Amulet, after all, in DAO. It could be that the eccentricity really was entirely an act. Revered Mother Dorothea might well have recruited her into the Seekers before sending her to Lothering. Bards are very good actors. While I kept my original vision of Leliana consistent in Victory at Ostagar, Bronwyn's original misgivings would have been right on the mark with the Leliana presented to us in DA2._

_Alistair's incompetence I base on canon, i.e., the DLC alternate timeline T_he Darkspawn Chronicles._ (SPOILER: Alistair obviously permits the Annulment of the mages (which Wynne somehow survives, heh-heh) slaughters the Dalish elves, chooses Harrowmont and sides with Branka. He apparently kills Loghain and takes the throne alone. We can presume that Anora was either executed or imprisoned and left to die in the sack of Denerim. His only companions are Leliana, Morrigan, and the dog —though Sten, Wynne, and Zevran are to be found in Denerim. He fails, big time, and perishes at the top of Fort Drakon.) At any rate, it is canon that Alistair cannot overcome the Blight without the Warden PC.  
_

_This story is complete, and I currently have no plans to continue it. (Some hints, though: King Bhelen writes a very nice letter of alliance to Loghain, speaking of his good friend the Fereldan Warden Elin, who is to be his liaison with the surface peoples. There is a fruitful visit to Soldier's Peak. Meanwhile, Orlesian troops mass on the border, under the aegis of a hapless puppet ruler: "Alistair Theirin, son of Maric, rightful king of Ferelden.")  
_

_Next up: "The Stupidest Order in Canon."_


	2. The Stupidest Order in Canon

T**he Stupidest Order in Canon,**

**Or,**

**The First Warden Really Wants Me Dead**

_Warden Loghain drops by Vigil's Keep to say farewell before going to Orlais, Dragon 9:32_

"Orlais?" Alim Surana's handsome elven face turned an unattractive shade of puce. _"Orlais?_ The First Warden's ordered you to go to _Orlais?"_

"He doesn't want me meddling in politics here, he said." Loghain shrugged. He looked calm — almost cheerful. In fact, with the burden of Ferelden lifted from his shoulders, he looked years younger.

Alim was not amused. "Pot, meet kettle! The man's practically the King of the Anderfels! Meanwhile, the arling is crawling with talking darkspawn, the fucking useless Orlesian Wardens are dead, I've a roster of only five new recruits, and the First Warden wants you to go to _Orlais?"_

"I believe I said that."

"Let me see that order."

Trembling with rage, lightning crackling from his fingertips, Alim read the offending missive. With a huge effort, he refrained from tearing it in pieces and throwing it in the fire.

"This is complete bullshit," he snarled.

"The King approves of it. The order was sent to him first. At least I had a chance to make my farewells with Anora."

Loghain and Alim met each other's eyes, understanding completely why the First Warden would play such a trick. Once again, Alim deeply regretted arranging for Alistair to rule jointly with Anora. Their friendship had not withstood Alim's recruitment of Loghain into the Wardens. On the other hand, Alim had no love for Anora, either. She had tossed her father to the wolves of the Landsmeet pretty quickly. Now it seemed like Alistair and Anora together were quite happy to do the same to Alim Surana, here in Amaranthine. It was all very well for Loghain, as her father, to forgive his daughter everything. Alim had no such ties to her, and had seen from the first that she was someone to keep an eye on, and two when he could spare them. Married to Anora, Alistair was growing more like her every day, it seemed.

Of course, Alim acknowledged that he was a mage, an elf, and terribly inconvenient, all in all. People were uncomfortable with the whole narrative of the Blight. The songs and stories focused on King Alistair, and even more—to Alistair's rage— on Loghain Mac Tir, who had actually been present on the roof of Fort Drakon when the Archdemon was slain. Such songs and stories made little or no mention about the elf who had actually done most of the work. Most people seemed to believe that Loghain had killed the Archdemon. It made sense to them.

The people of Amaranthine — nobles and commons both— were restive and hostile under Alim's rule. Some hated him because they were Howe loyalists. Some hated him because he was what he was. An elf... a mage... a Grey Warden: take your pick. Having Loghain here with him — for Loghain was still very popular in Amaranthine — would be a gift of the Maker. Loghain was a far more convincing leadership figure than a slender, scholarly elf mage. It might well stop Bann Esmerelle's plotting altogether. The Grey Wardens needed a public face that the people of Amaranthine could respect... or fear, at least.

"I'll handle Alistair," said Alim. "You're not going anywhere. The First Warden has done nothing but set me up for failure since the beginning. You're my Senior Warden, and we have darkspawn to fight."

Loghain snorted, faintly amused. By an ironic twist of fate, his former mortal enemy was his best ally at the moment. Fighting darkspawn was infinitely better than going to Orlais. "I don't gainsay you, but you know there'll be trouble if you defy both the King and the First Warden."

"Fuck 'em," said Alim concisely. "Stow your things in the barracks. We're going to war."

* * *

_Note: Yeah, right. As Ferelden still suffers from the aftershocks of the Blight, the new Warden-Commander is ordered to send the only other experienced Warden in Ferelden to Orlais, presumably to be assassinated. Pretty spiteful for an order with a good sprinkling of murderers and bandits. Politically, I think it's much more advantageous to keep Loghain as a symbol of the Wardens' power, out where people can see him. At least in my opinion. And who asked for those Orlesian Wardens anyway? When the Warden PC asks the Weisshaupt mouthpiece (oops, Mistress Woolsey) for more Wardens, he/she is treated to a condescending lecture about the independent nature of the Fereldan people. For that matter, at the beginning of canon, it's made clear that the only Wardens allowed to come to Ferelden's aid must be from Orlais. Why couldn't they come across the Waking Sea from the Marches? It's clear that there is some sort of pro-Orlesian agenda at Weisshaupt, at least where Ferelden is concerned.  
_

_I also don't see that Loghain's popularity would be completely destroyed within a year from Ostagar, in the absence of modern media. In fact, Loghain had control of what media there was during the Blight, and most people would have heard the bad things being spread about the Wardens. Why wouldn't they believe Loghain, who had been a national hero for thirty years? As for an elf and a mage killing the Archdemon, it's a case of "Who are you going to believe? Received wisdom or your lying eyes?" It's of a piece with Garahel being almost unknown after his victory in the Fourth Blight. When prayers of thanksgiving were offered in the Chantry, I'd bet serious money that no mention was made of any mage.  
_

_While I can see the nobles in the Landsmeet having their knives out for Loghain on any pretense at all, I think his rep, though damaged, would survive, especially in those areas not directly ravaged by the Blight or by Rendon Howe. Personally, I suspect that generally, if you were a human landowner, you'd think Howe was just fine, though it's clear he played favorites, like any other medieval lord. _

_Next up: "Eavesdroppers Hear No Good of Themselves." Aedan Cousland meets Delilah Howe in Amaranthine, Dragon: 9:32.  
_


	3. Eavesdroppers Hear No Good of Themselves

**You Never Know What Someone Really Thinks of You, Until You Hear Them Talk About You Behind Your Back, **

**Or,**

**Eavesdroppers Hear No Good of Themselves**

_Aedan Cousland's encounter with Delilah Howe in Amaranthine, Dragon 9:32_

They needed to go to Amaranthine anyway to look for the Orlesian Warden Kristoff, so Aedan agreed to let Nathaniel come along and look for his long-lost sister as well. How weird was this? A Cousland and a Howe, marching along, embarrassingly in step, searching for the girl that Aedan Cousland had nearly married.

He still felt that Alistair had been wrong to cede Amaranthine to the Wardens. Yes, the arling was vacant—though for that matter, so were Denerim and Gwaren— but the port of Amaranthine was an important Fereldan city. What if the First Warden appointed an Orlesian or some other foreigner as Commander? Aedan would have been perfectly happy to remain in Denerim and rebuild the old compound. Perhaps, though, Arl Eamon did not _want_ Aedan interfering in Eamon's role as chancellor and chief adviser to the king. Of course, if Eamon was set on exiling him from the capital, there was Soldier's Peak, ready to be renovated.

On the other hand, Amaranthine was a chaotic mess. Aedan suspected that Arl Eamon had advised Alistair to give the Wardens Amaranthine both to get Aedan out of Denerim and to dump the responsibility of putting it in order on the Hero of Ferelden. Alistair had always excelled at dumping responsibility on him. Aedan had hoped those days were over, but apparently they were not.

And now, here he was, hobnobbing with Howes again. Aedan had thought those days were over, too. Then Nathaniel showed up at Vigil's Keep, proud, penniless, and utterly bereft. He was a Howe, but he was also completely innocent of the murders his father had committed. Aedan's heart had sickened at the thought of hanging a boyhood companion, whose only crime lay in not choosing his father more carefully. Still, there had been resentment there, and it had made him impulsively choose to make Nathaniel Join him in the order that Aedan both upheld and hated.

Nathaniel still looked at him oddly, now and then. Not surprisingly, since Nate was trying to reconcile what he felt about his father with what everyone else in Ferelden was telling him about the man's deeds. He had thought his entire family was dead, and then the old groundskeeper had recognized him and revealed that his sister, Delilah, was still alive: living in the city of Amaranthine, and married to a shopkeeper.

It was a horrible comedown for Lady Delilah Howe. Aedan, however much he still hated his family's murderer, found the idea of a young noblewoman being forced to survive by selling herself in marriage to one beneath her both distressing and outrageous. Did Anora, did Alistair know that Rendon had left an heir? Did Eamon? It was a nasty piece of spite. If Aedan did not feel animus against the daughter of the man who had killed his parents, then no one else should meddle in the affair. It would have been proper to summon Delilah to the Landsmeet and give her a proper hearing. Instead, she was thrown away like so much rubbish.

He did not think Fergus knew. Fergus had arrived late to the Landsmeet, only recently recovered from his near-mortal wounds at Ostagar and his year among the Chasind Wilders. Their relationship, however, had not quite recovered yet. Aedan had lived, while Father and Mother, while Oriana and little Oren all lay dead and rotting in a filthy midden. Fergus had since written that he had caused a burial mound to be raised over the dead. It was difficult to identify anyone, since the scores of corpses been stripped ruthlessly, greedily, of all clothing and jewelry. There was more than one child among them. Aedan's survival lay between the brothers, an open wound. Fergus and he were still family, but Aedan had not saved Fergus' wife and son. Fergus did not know about Nathaniel yet. What would he say, when he found out that a Howe was Aedan's brother Warden?

That last night at Highever, Rendon Howe had told Aedan that Delilah had asked after him. Aedan had thought Delilah quite attractive, and had accepted that ultimately the two of them would marry. Father would give him some bannorn or other, and Delilah would have a dowry, and between them, he had thought they would do very well. It had not been a very romantic situation, but Aedan had enjoyed paying court to his prospective bride now and then. He liked her, and she seemed to like him well enough. He would play his part with good grace and treat his lady wife as a gentleman should.

He had been a fool. Rendon had apparently no intention of giving his gentle and charming daughter to a mere second son. His real plans had been thwarted when Fergus had brought home an Antivan wife. Perhaps that was when he had begun compassing their deaths. Perhaps if Fergus had married Delilah, Rendon would have been satisfied with knowing that his grandson would someday be Teyrn of Highever.

These were heavy thoughts. Aedan let Anders and Oghren chatter idly as they approached the South Gate of Amaranthine. Nathaniel sullenly muttered his relief that his father's head was not on display there. Aedan ground his teeth and did not take it up. Rendon Howe had been decently burned, which was a great deal more than he had vouchsafed the Couslands.

They passed into the street of the merchants. In the distance, Nathaniel recognized a woman. She was poorly clothed, and her back was to them, but Aedan thought he knew the set of those slender shoulders. They walked toward her. Aedan hung back, respectful— and a little envious— of the family reunion.

"Delilah? Is that really you?"

"Nathaniel! I had feared the worst..."

Aedan's heart clenched at their loving embrace. He bit his lip and his eyes burned. He remembered searching Howe's dungeons in Denerim... the dungeons at Vigil's Keep... hoping against hope that Mother might have been spared. It was a vain hope, of course. Howe had not the least incentive to keep her alive. Now Nathaniel had family again. Aedan looked past Nathaniel's shoulder at Delilah's tearful, joyful, tender face.

She had aged a bit. There were worry lines at her brow. She was thin, too; no longer the curvaceous young lady of times past. Either she had not been eating regularly, or the victuals a common shopkeeper could put on the table were insufficient to keep up her lovely figure. The clothes looked second-hand: threadbare and faded, like Delilah herself.

Nathaniel obviously felt the same, for his next words were urgent, his voice rough with emotion.

"Times must have been hard, Delilah, but you can do better than this. Come back to the estate until we can find somewhere else."

_"What?"_ Delilah laughed. It made her look briefly young again. "Oh, Nathaniel, I didn't marry Albert out of desperation. I _adore_ him. He's so much better than that stuck-up Cousland boy Father kept trying to set me up with!"

Anders snickered. Oghren snorted a rumbling laugh. Nathaniel glanced at Aedan, rather alarmed. Aedan, stricken, felt himself turning red with shock and embarrassment. It seemed he must say something.

"Er..." he managed, at the moment very, very sorry he had not ordered Nathaniel hanged. "I'm standing right here. Remember me? Aedan?"

"Oh. That was you, wasn't it? Awkward... I'm sorry. What my Father did to your family was... terrible.. Thank the Maker I'm finally away from his evil."

Nathaniel protested. "Father's _'evil?'_ Isn't that overstating things a little? He got caught up in politics."

Brother and sister were engrossed in their own concerns again, ignoring Aedan, who stood there, unimportant, a minor bystander in their family drama. A handful of words for the slaughter of his parents, of his nephew and his brother's wife, of his good friends and loyal servants; and then a lot more yammering about bloody Rendon Howe than the bastard deserved.

"You weren't here, Nathaniel," said Delilah. "You didn't see what he did. Of course you always worshiped Father from the time you were a little boy. If you want the culprit who destroyed our family, it was Father, without question." She took him by the hand.

"Come brother. Let us sit and catch up."

They disappeared into a hovel behind the market stalls. Aedan gaped after them, biting back bitter resentment; shamefully, meanly glad to see that Delilah Howe was living in squalor. Anders looked about to make a smart remark, and then wisely refrained, seeing Aedan's dark, furious face. He hissed in sympathy.

"Let's... go over... there," he suggested to Oghren. "While the Warden-Commander works on _commanding_ himself."

It wasn't easy. Aedan liked to think himself a clever man. He had persuaded elves, dwarves, and mages to fight for him. He had resolved knotty problems with smooth words. He had won over the Landsmeet. He had talked a diffident young man into becoming King, and then into marrying the daughter of a man he hated above all others. He had made a friend and comrade of a bitter enemy. The King of Orzammar himself had spoken of Aedan's "legendary charm."

His charm, apparently, had no effect whatever on women. With women, Aedan was forced to recognize that he was a fool and dupe. He had imagined Delilah charmed by him! Why should she be? Why should she be any more charmed than Morrigan, whom he had imagined to be his soulmate, his best beloved? "Legendary charm?" What a joke. He had not charmed _any_ female who traveled with him during the Blight.

Leliana, whom he had believed to be a close friend, had taken herself off to Orlais as soon as the dust of the Archdemon settled. Now Aedan wondered if the sweet, rather loony demeanor had been a bard's sham to gain inside information. Based on seeing her in deep conversation with some Chantry officials, it now seemed very likely. She could tell the Chantry and the Orlesian Empress everything they could possibly want to know about the new king of Ferelden and those close to him.

That Wynne had chosen to be Alistair's Court Mage was more expected, and stung less. Wynne had never quite approved of him because of his relationship with Morrigan. She had warned him that it was a terrible idea, again and again. Now, horribly, he had to accept that she had been right all along, and that he had been consummately wrong.

Morrigan, he discovered on the eve of the greatest battle of his life, had never regarded him as anything but a convenient means to an end. At best, he was a stud beast, whose seed was needed to fill her with an Old God. She had known the Warden secrets — _all_ of them — and had kept them from him until the last moment, hoping to profit from his shock and wretchedness — and yes, his fear — at knowing that a Warden must die. That betrayal had so enraged him that he had driven her and all her great and useful powers away. Loghain had taken the final blow, slaying the Archdemon and redeeming his mistakes with his blood. Aedan had once loved Morrigan with all his heart, but if he saw her again, his first impulse would be to hack her to pieces.

And now Delilah... It was just as well that love was not for Wardens, since only Aedan's vanity had persuaded him that he could be lovable. He mused on his own stupidity until Nathaniel came back, his step as light as his lifted spirits, his face aglow with fraternal love.

"She seems... happy. When all this is over, she wants me to come back... meet her husband. She's due in the spring! She said Father deserved to die. I still can't believe it."

"You don't believe her?"

"He got mixed up in politics! I thought he had his reasons."

"He did have his reasons," Aedan said, not sorry to hurt this man, since he was a gentleman and could not hurt the man's sister. "He wanted to be Teyrn of Highever. By the time he was done, he was Teyrn of Highever and Teyrn of Denerim, too. When I was down in the dungeons, I found... the remains of Vaughan Kendells, who had supposedly been killed by the elves during an "uprising."

Not for worlds would Aedan tell Nathaniel that he had killed Vaughan himself. That had been a dark, mad day. He had just killed Rendon, and his blood was up. The sound of Vaughan's blustering voice, threatening to flay him, had tipped him over the edge. And he had got quite a bit of gold out of it.

Nathaniel whispered. "I just want to know if he suffered..."

Aedan walked faster. Anders was making faces at him. They could not run out the South Gate, since they still needed to visit the Crown and Lion. He made himself stop and answer Nathaniel.

"Not much, no. Everyone suffers when they die, more or less. He had it easy. A quick death in honorable combat, though I will point out that I was outnumbered. I didn't go there to kill him, Nathaniel. Had I been intent on assassinating your father, I had earlier opportunities. I always put my duty as a Grey Warden first, and I focused on fighting the Blight. I went to his estate that day because Queen Anora's maid came to me with a story about Anora being held captive by your father."

At Nathaniel's look of palpable disbelief, Aedan made an impatient gesture, not liking to speak of Anora and her bitch of a maid: two more women who had played him, nearly to his death.

"She was there, all right. I told Eamon that going there was ridiculous — an obvious trap — but I was overruled. Winning the Queen over was worth any danger to Eamon, or at least worth any danger someone _else_ would face. Of course she had people she could have called on, but my analysis was that she was hoping to get rid of either your father— or me— or preferably both of us. Then, too, as she _was_ queen, and a lady, and required my help, I could hardly refuse. When I arrived by stealth, the door to her room was sealed by a spell, which required that I find the spellcaster, who happened to be in the dungeons, standing next to your father. Your father had little use for the Queen. What his ultimate plans were, I don't know. He did appear to be loyal to Loghain, and he wanted him to take the throne. As you might imagine, our conversation was not protracted, and I prefer not to repeat what he said about the women of my family. He attacked first."

"And you fought to the death."

"Not much choice, for either of us. Your father fought hard and well. He was a brave man and quick with a blade. He fell. It was a clean death. Now you know what happened to your father. As to why he did all he did, I can't help you. I don't know. I don't think anyone will ever know. It's destined to remain a mystery. None of it turned out well for him in the long run. Nothing much has turned out well for anyone in the past two years, aside from Eamon Guerrin, Chancellor of the Realm, and Queen Anora, who still rules in Denerim, married to her dead husband's brother."

Nathaniel, of course, was still brooding over his bloody father.

"Before I went to the Free Marches, he was never... How could he have changed so much? What if I'd never left? I didn't have much choice, but still... I wish I'd known some of this sooner. What if—"

"What if?" Aedan faced hardened. _"What if?_ Don't you think I have a thousand 'what ifs' of my own? Today I collected another. I never knew your sister disliked me. I thought we were all friends. I thought I was being charming when clearly I was actually being bumptious and... what was it? 'Stuck-up.' If I'd been more attractive... if I had won her heart... _maybe_ your father would have been satisfied with an alliance between our two families. If I'd been more appealing to Delilah, maybe my family wouldn't all be _dead!"_

"You can't blame Delilah for that."

"And you're not listening. I don't. After your _father,_ of course, I suppose I have only myself to blame."

* * *

_Note: Most of the conversations between Delilah and Aedan, and Delilah and Nathaniel is canon. I find it shockingly callous when the Warden PC is a Cousland. Of course, it's entirely possible that Delilah really and truly did not like the Cousland younger son, and looked upon the fall of the Couslands as a lucky escape for her._

_Next up: "The Once and Future Champion," Or, "Hawke Does Not Hesitate to Leap."  
_


	4. The Once and Future Viscount

**The Once and Future Viscount,  
**

**Or,**

**Hawke Does Not Hesitate to Leap**

Hawke is declared Champion of Kirkwall, 9:35

Grudgingly, trying to put the best possible face on the fact that she and her Templars had come too late to the fight to make a difference, Knight Commander Meredith Stannard threw a bone to the tiresome, mage-sympathizing soldier-of-fortune who had dueled the Arishok—and won. A title to satisfy his pride... surely that would keep him quiet. Here was a solution: a traditional Marcher title with no land, no coin, and no influence whatsoever.

"It appears that Kirkwall has a new Champion," she declared. Her words found instant support—far more than she had anticipated.

"The Champion!" echoed the nobles, relieved to be alive and not on their way to some Qunari "Reeducation Camp."

"Champion of Kirkwall," sighed a young lady. "Thank the Maker for him!"

"Champion of Kirkwall," Varric considered. "Sounds...good."

Killian Hawke sheathed his blades and gave the Knight-Commander a cocky grin, while Anders repaired the damage done to him by the Arishok, now a leaky corpse on the floor of the Viscount's throne room. Marlowe Dumar, the late Viscount, was even leakier, but that was only to be expected, since he had been neatly beheaded by the Qunari. As Dumar's son had been murdered by Chantry agents only the night before, the Dumar dynasty was extinct.

Words, almost forgotten, came to Hawke. He remember the impressive sight of Flemeth at the elven shrine, resurrected by her amulet. She had given him advice that he had not understood at the time. Now the meaning was crystal clear.

_"We stand upon the precipice of change. The world fears the inevitable plummet into the abyss. Watch for that moment... and when it comes, do not hesitate to leap. It is only when you fall that you learn whether you can fly." _

Looking about him, he saw that indeed, the moment had com_e. _

"The city has been saved," bleated an overdressed nobleman. All eyes were on Killian Hawke: grateful, desperate, anxious eyes. Hands were stretched toward him, and only him. There would never be a chance like this again. If he hated the way things were in Kirkwall, he must take the plunge.

The new Champion raised his voice.

"Yes, the city has been saved! Kirkwall survives, but will need leadership to rebuild. Nobles of Kirkwall, the Viscount lies dead! Who will take up his office?"

"You, Champion!" called the adoring young lady. Instantly, voices shouted in acclamation, begging Hawke to lead them, to save them, to protect them. Meredith glared at them all, taken by surprise. Hawke smirked at her, and bent to pick up the iron coronet, fallen from Marlowe Dumar's severed head. He set it on his own. It fit.

"I accept!" shouted Killian. "Captain Aveline! We have a city to set right. Knight-Commander, thank you for your assistance. Prince Sebastian, if you would be so good, arrange a time for me to speak to the Grand Cleric. We need to sit down and work out a plan to help those left homeless or orphaned by this disaster. We need to recognize those who did the most to defend us in this terrible time. Together, we will restore Kirkwall to her rightful glory!"

Loud cheering greeted his impromptu speech. Even some Templars were cheering. Meredith Stannard stared, horrified by the outcome of her hasty words. Surrounded by his crew of misfits and the remains of the City Guard, Hawke stalked past her, to the Viscount's office, to take up power in Kirkwall.

He gave her a wink. Meredith's rage blazed up, threatening to overwhelm her. If she pulled her sword and tried to kill _him,_ Hawke apparently felt the odds were not entirely in her favor, as they had been been when Meredith had cut down an unarmed, aged Viscount Threnhold. Hawke was taunting her, hoping she would try it. Perhaps it was better to have it out, here and now.

They stood at the precipice of change.

* * *

_Notes: Sorry for "The Lady or the Tiger" ending, but I trust you to follow events to their logical conclusion. Hawke is awfully passive in canon. There might be good psychological reasons for that, depending on the individual, but at this point, Hawke's mother is dead, and his sister is a Grey Warden (because I always take Bethany along on the journey to the Deep Roads). Meredith has little leverage over him, so there's no reason for him to keep a low profile any longer. My newest Hawke—Killian— is very proactive. He's had enough of Kirkwall's craziness. He can do more if he openly exercises power... and if he can keep the Chantry from murdering him, of course._

_And as for an Exalted March— What exactly, would the Chantry's rationalization be? An Exalted March because they were not permitted to take direct power in Kirkwall? Because the new Viscount defended himself against an unprovoked attack by the Knight-Commander? I can't see the rest of Thedas going for that. In fact, in canon the threat of an Exalted March enrages me, because the city at that point is being ruled by Meredith. If she can't manage it, maybe the Divine should consider that her crazy incompetence is the problem. That, and the senile lack of engagement by the Grand Cleric. None of it speaks well for Dorothea as Divine, who is supposed to be one of the good guys. However, I can't claim to be non-partisan on the issue of the Andrasteanism, which I think is an appalling religion, made up by the Orlesians long after the death of Andraste for political purposes, and maintaining power by generating fear of mages. They do nothing really to help people (Don't talk about their schools and hospitals, because we never see them, and they do zip for the refugees in Kirkwall), but they're really good at incarcerating mages or Tranquilizing them to be slave labor. And they keep the Templars in line by addicting them to drugs. Ick._

_Next up: "And Never to Rule Over Them!" or, "You Can't Have a Fair Fight with a Mage." The Landsmeet, Dragon 9:31.  
_


	5. And Never to Rule Over Him!

"**And Never to Rule over Him!"**

**Or,**

**You Can't Have a Fair Fight With a Mage**

The Landsmeet, Dragon 9:31 (a twofer)

1.

"A mage to fight Loghain?" scoffed Bann Ceorlic. "A _mage?_ You would let one of unholy, arcane powers attack the Regent? You would let a _mage _rule over you? Better and more honorable to let the mabari fight."

Uncertainty, and then general approval greeted this statement. Even allies of the Warden, like Bann Alfstanna, could see Ceorlic's point. It was clearly unfair to make a man fight a mage, who could call demons to her side. Arl Eamon's mouth hung open. He thought he had foreseen every possible contingency, but this had not occurred to him.

_"'Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him!'"_ quoted Lady Rosalyn, Bann Ceorlic's wife.

The Grand Cleric agreed. "A mage is unacceptable as a champion. Stand aside, mage. Someone else must act, preferably your true leader."

Flushing, Vivian Amell stepped back, her eyes locked with Loghain's. He smirked, his confidence suddenly rising at the public humiliation of this thorn in his side. He had never had the slightest doubt that Vivian Amell was the leader of this band of misfits.

Alistair shouldered his way forward. "I'll do it."

Vivian suddenly had an awful, terrifying premonition of disaster. "No, Alistair!" she whispered. "Don't!"

He did not listen, bitterly vengeful as he was.

"So be it!" Loghain declared. "Let this false pretender suffer the consequences of his lies."

It was a close-run thing. Really close. Alistair was a splendid warrior. Loghain, however, had been splendid warrior for a long, long time, and knew tricks—some of them very dirty indeed—that Alistair had never seen. Loghain's back was to the wall, and cornered, he fought as he had fought in his youth against the Orlesians. The end was brutal. It was bloody. And it was final.

To her surprise, Vivian was imprisoned but not executed. Oh, other heads rolled, most notably Eamon Guerrin's, but not that of the last Grey Warden in Ferelden.

Or, Loghain considered, perhaps she was not the last. That Orlesian spy, Riordan, had escaped Howe's dungeons on the day the girl killed the arl, and his whereabouts were unknown. He was an irritant, but the Amell girl was the serious issue.

Loghain ordered her imprisoned, yes, but not mistreated. Instead of the cells of Fort Drakon, she was put under guard in a tower room in the palace, with Templars on hand to deal with any magical outbursts. She had won the allegiance of the dwarves and mages, both valuable allies. And those Dalish elves, too. They could be useful. There was a Blight to be fought, after all. Loghain had pursued the dwarves and the mages himself, but had failed to gain their support. If this mage girl wanted to live, she would throw her lot in with him. And he had locked away quite a few of her friends: the Orlesian bard, the elderly mage, the dwarven warrior, the Qunari... her faithful mabari, too. That should give him some leverage over her. She had some other followers, notably a young woman of Chasind appearance and a strangely familiar elf, but they had not been captured with the rest.

He had been feeling better lately. His head was clearer. Something had been troubling him for months, like a fog or a heavy weight. It had lifted suddenly, a few days ago, and Loghain felt like himself again.

How had he let all this get so out of hand? Why had he allowed Howe free reign to torture and kill? Why was he not in the South, fighting the darkspawn? Why had he allowed Howe to lock up Anora, of all things? Anora was furious with him, and had denounced him in front of the entire Landsmeet.

Now he had had to lock up Anora himself, which was quite horrible and depressing, but he had little choice. He still visited her, and he planned to have the Warden brought to one of their meetings, to sweeten his overtures of peace.

Really, now that the poor foolish boy was out of the way, Rendon Howe dead and Eamon Guerrin silenced, Loghain was rather uncomfortable with calling the mage girl a traitor. She had, as far as he knew, never taken up arms against him, but had been spending her time building alliances against the darkspawn for Ferelden. Quite laudable, really. It was only Eamon who had tried to use them to put his hapless puppet on the throne. Hadn't the girl urged Loghain to join with them, when he had confronted Eamon at the arl's estate? So far, questioning of the Orlesian bard had yielded no evidence that the mage had been in direct contact with Orlais herself. There was also no evidence that she had received any assistance, monetary or otherwise, from any foreign power—including the Wardens. Perhaps the Orlesian had been spying on the girl AND the pretender, and was not their handler. It seemed more and more likely. Perhaps he had misjudged her entirely...

Had he been sick? He was never sick! He had actually contemplated taking the throne away from Anora! Had he gone mad? Anora seemed to think so. Sometimes people did go mad, and then were well again. Perhaps that had happened to him. An episode. Over, now. The shock of Ostagar? Time to put that behind him. There was plenty of blame to go round.

At any rate, it was time for some serious mending of fences. With Anora, with the nobles, with the people. With the Warden, too, somehow. If they could work together to defeat the Blight, he would have to step down afterwards... resign his offices... retire to Gwaren... whatever. But fight the Blight they must, and for that, he needed Vivian Amell.

* * *

_On the same theme, but even shorter… Thanks to Chiara Crawford for the idea… This mage is not Vivian Amell._

2.

Loghain was crouched on the floor of the Landsmeet, clutching his head, his bloodshot eyes rolled back. The Warden wiped his dagger and sheathed it, pressing a linen rag to the shallow cuts on the underside of his forearm. A few drops of his blood mingled with the pool of it around Loghain. He shoved the rag away in a pocket, and took up his staff, thumping it on the stone floor in triumph.

The Wardens' party cheered their leader's victory, but the rest of the great chamber had fallen into a shocked hush. Anora cried out sharply, and rushed to her father's side, her anger at him forgotten.

"Blood magic!" cried Bann Alfstanna. "That was Blood Magic! The Warden was controlling Loghain!"

A storm of horrified response followed, with the Grand Cleric's voice cutting through the noise.

"Blood Magic!" she declared, her voice thick with revulsion. "The mage cut himself to cast spells!"

She glanced at her Templar guard. Ser Tavish, his face stern, nodded gravely, unsheathing his sword. There could be no mistake.

The Warden saw the tide of opinion turning against him. Even Arl Eamon gaped at him, looking as if his erstwhile ally had suddenly sprouted claws and fangs.

Damien Amell shouted, "Blood Magic is not forbidden to the Wardens. We defeat our enemies by any means necessary!"

"Look here," Arl Wulffe said, helping Loghain stand up. "It's all very well for Wardens to claim such things, but surely that only applies to darkspawn. You can't use Blood Magic on a _man!_ It's not right."

"Blood Magic is never anything but a crime, mage!" declared the Grand Cleric. "Anyone who told you otherwise is a liar and a maleficar!"

"Hey!" Alistair protested weakly, not wanting Duncan criticized in any way.

"And this _pretender,"_ sneered Bann Ceorlic, pointing at Alistair, "is in league with a maleficar himself!"

"You _hypocrite,"_ Damien snarled at the battered Loghain. "What about your Tevinter magisters in the Alienage?"

"At least," Loghain replied softly, a vengeful gleam in his eye, "I had the sense not to bring them to the _Landsmeet!"_

Metal hissed from scores of scabbards, as the nobles of Ferelden prepared to defend themselves against these spawn of evil. Frightened noncombatants rushed up to the gallery, out of the way. The Warden, his staff lifted, gestured to his people warily, and they began backing out of the Chamber.

It was over: Alistair's claim to the throne, Eamon's grand schemes, their hopes for a Ferelden united with them against the Blight. They would be lucky to escape this room alive.

* * *

_Notes to story #1: I can't believe, in the society posited by Dragon Age, that a mage would be an acceptable champion in a formal duel before the Landsmeet. It's like sending a man with a sword to face a man with a machine gun. The mabari is not permitted to act as a champion in the duel against Loghain. I can see Fereldans going for the dog long before they'd go for a mage! At this point in canon, the Warden PC has gone into the Alienage and cleared out the blood mage coven, which I'm convinced had their dirty fingers in a lot of important brains.  
_

_Notes to story #2: The mage Warden can use Blood magic all the time in public, and nobody ever seems to take any notice of it or find it unacceptable. Surely, if your opponents are bleeding from the eyes and ears, or are behaving like puppets, it would be clear that it's blood magic. Ditto, the visible wounds that would be required of the caster. (Unless, of course, the mage was having her period. There's probably another story there.)_

_This story is complete. Next up: "A Marauder of the Wounded Coast," or, "Beyond the Veil Lies Kirkwall." I can't guarantee that it will be up next week, since I'll be off attending a writers' conference. Soon, though.  
_


End file.
